


Once

by Sivvus



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce, The Immortals - Tamora Pierce, The Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Affection, Angst, Animals, Beltane, Childhood, Comedy, Coming of Age, Death, Fantasy, Fear, Fever, Fire, Friendship, Funny, Gods, Home, Humour, Immortality, Immortals, Love, Madness, Magic, Memories, Obsession, Once Upon A Time, One-Shot, Other, Passion, Peace, Quiet, Regrets, Revenge, Romance, Sad, Sex, Sickness, Snow, War, arrogant, divine - Freeform, divine realms, farm, horse, joke, noble, pony - Freeform, romantic, secret, smoke, trick - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sivvus/pseuds/Sivvus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something magical about the word "once". It speaks of a single thing, something that is never repeated. It can be something beautiful or painful. Perhaps we call it "once" because we hope it will never happen again. We draw lines around the fluid paths of our lives, and say, here, this is where this began, and this is where it ended. Once, I was content. Once, I was desperately unhappy. Once, I laughed until my sides ached. Once, I did something I regretted... </p><p>Collection of one shots of lots of different characters. If you had one memory that you cherished or which haunted you, what would it be?  Characters so far: Sarra, Peachblossom, Roger, Stormwing, Daine, Numair</p><p>Gifted to Belbeten because of your lovely comments on my other one-shot fic. Thank you! ^_^</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belbeten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belbeten/gifts).



Once upon a time...

There is something magical about the word "once". It speaks of a single thing, something that is never repeated. It can be something beautiful or painful. Perhaps we call it "once" because we hope it will never happen again. We draw lines around the fluid paths of our lives, and say, here, this is where this began, and this is where it ended. Once, I was content. Once, I was desperately unhappy. Once, I laughed until my sides ached. Once, I did something I regretted...

The memory of once is wild and compelling. A small glimpse, a sound, a scent, and suddenly the memory becomes a shadow, dancing around the real world and beckoning: follow! See through my eyes! The fruit is sweeter than honey, the lights are brighter and the softness becomes silk. See my shape; see my claws as you are drawn in. The words are harsher, the pain is sharper, and the smell of copper becomes the sound of steel.

Every story begins "once upon a time," not just the fairy tales. And the stories of Once are always beautiful, because they are a part of Forever.

This is a collection of stories. Some are happy, some sad. Some are funny, some romantic, some are violent and some are thoughtful. Everyone's memories are different, after all.

Once upon a time...


	2. Sarra

If Sarra was going to choose one moment in her life to recall, it would have begun with the smell of smoke. Her whole life seemed to be lit by flames- sometimes the warm, distant flicker where life begins, sometimes the growing inferno where it ends. Looking back at her life was difficult- a brief breath of being, shrouded in the ash of forgotten mortality. It was something that her husband couldn't understand. Or perhaps he wouldn't. Human memories are designed to smoulder, not to blaze for all eternity. An immortal would burn through a lifetime of memories in a moment and not stop to see where the ashes landed. Sarra did. It was often unexpected; the creeping bitterness of smoke in the evening, the sound of crackling timber, and suddenly her myriad of days were mortal again. In the smell of smoke there was the first breath of life, and in the brightness of the flames lurked the shadows of death. The irony made her smile.

The memory of fire was confused. There were two separate fires, years apart, and yet they mingled in her memory. The first was lit by laughter, a series of blazes in the dry summer fields, framed by the dancing shadows of men and women who sang and held each other closely. There were large fires in the middle of the clearing, where some of the old men had brought rough ale and cider and were toasting the gods merrily, glad to celebrate a rite that no longer had any meaning for them. The couples that danced around these fires were the bold, the lucky ones. The ones who were happily married, who were already blessed with children. The light caught the ribbons in their clothes and their hair, small sparks dancing in the wind and lighting in the folds of their clothes. The men wore headdresses made from animal horn, looking strangely elegant in the flickering light. They drank in the billowing smoke like the richest wine, sensing the goddess in the rich headiness of her perfume.

The fires further down the hill were smaller, quieter. There danced the shy, the hopeful, those who leapt over the embers with eyes full of the starving hope that breaks hearts. The night was a strange mixture of heedless joy and immeasurable pain. Sarra remembered asking her mother once why it should be so- why do some people cry when they're dancing? The woman had looked away, her own eyes filled with the ash of loss. Life was bittersweet, she said. A child wouldn't understand it.

We're all children of the gods. Sarra had replied with unusual clarity. She wished she hadn't. The light in her mother's voice seemed to fade each Beltane, until even the tears dried in her eyes. Perhaps, thought Sarra, she can't understand it either.

She was certainly feeling sorry for herself that night; she remembered the knot in her stomach as clearly as the smell. Children weren't supposed to see the rites, but of course they always did. The games that the adults made for them, to tire them out in the day, only made them excited and restless. They tried to lie down in the hot woollen sheets and sleep, but Sleep seemed far away. In the hills the music played, and they followed it irresistibly each year. They hid in the woods, and of course the adults knew they were there, but this was a night when children were invisible. These were farm children, and the couples who thought themselves hidden in the woods showed them nothing that interested them... but the dancing and the fires seemed dark and forbidding and full of wonder to their eyes. They would watch until dawn, and sneak away.

Sarra thought about this, sighing from where she sat in her new dress. Last year she had been with them, laughing and telling stories about the gods they had imagined flitting through the trees with eyes of gold and voices of thunder. But last year seemed far away, and here she was, dressed in an ill-fitting dress that nipped her wrists, head aching from the tightly tied ribbons, bored out of her mind. She was now a woman, and had a place at the rites... even though she looked at the spot-nosed men her own age with the same open dislike that they looked at her. There were maybe ten of them, teenagers from all the villages at their first adult rite, looking at each other with embarrassment or open hostility and blushing furiously whenever one of the dancers invited them to the circle. It was horrible, and after an hour of it Sarra decided she'd had enough. The goddess had probably Seen Her Face, or whatever she was supposed to do to welcome new moths to this stupid flame. The smoke stung her eyes, and without saying a word to any of the others she simply stood up and left.

The smell of smoke clung to the horrible dress, and with horror the girl realised that she'd have to wash the smudges of ash from it in the morning. What had possessed her ma to make her a white dress? It would never clean, and then she'd get the blame of course. A child would be better at cleaning, without the other chores that adults are rewarded with, but then a child would never be wearing something made by loving hands over so many years that she'd completely grown out of it. She rubbed at one of the marks ruefully, wondering if she could convince her ma that she'd dyed it grey.

"Don't you know how to dance?" Someone said- a man. Sarra span around and tried to glare at him, but had to squint instead. He stood between her and the fire, a silhouette that melted into the shadows of the trees around him. She shaded her eyes with one hand and used the other to point at the fire.

"Dancing's over there. You're lost." Her voice was matter-of-fact, the steady tones of the respected healer she was becoming. Usually the voice worked- most men would at least look around, slowed by the alcohol in their minds, and that would give her time to slip away. But this one laughed instead.

"Can't dance without a partner, can I?"

"You won't find one here." Sarra's voice was still strong, but a shred of unease crept into it. This man's voice wasn't familiar- and it certainly wasn't the soft slurring of a drunk who'd stumbled into the woods by mistake. The thought of running away raced through her mind for a split second and she dismissed it. If she was going to judge this man on his voice, she thought, then she might as well give him credit for sounding kind, and funny, and maybe a bit shy. He hadn't made any move towards her, so she smiled to make her words less harsh. "I don't like dancing."

"I think you might," he moved as if to step forward and then hesitated. The way he moved was strange- the soft, soothing motion of the hunters who charmed the deer into stillness. It was a talent, they said, to think like the herd. To be able to be calm, and reassuring, and give no hint of danger until the very instant when your arrow strikes the heart of your target. Many men moved like that, but she'd never seen one who made it look so natural. Most of them looked guilty as they tiptoed around their homes. This one looked like he was trying to sooth the forest itself.

"My name is... is Warren." He hesitated, and then stepped aside so that he was lit by the fire. Sarra relaxed when she saw his face- it seemed familiar, although she couldn't remember where she'd seen him before. He looked her own age, but he could have been older- his eyes showed the hardness that was the mark that life left on the village folk. For all that, they were kind. She looked at him, and for an instant their eyes met. Sarra caught her breath without realising it- a glimpse of something burning beneath the kind shyness stole air from her lungs- and just as quickly the moment was gone. She looked down as if to straighten her skirt, and then smiled back at him.

"I'm Sarra. And you're right, I do like dancing really. Just... not because everyone else is. You know?"

He frowned and glanced back at the fires, as if seeing them for the first time. "I guess that people are blessed for more than just where they put their feet, but tonight is a night for dancing. Even the gods dance in the solstice."

She giggled, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. "Imagine Mithros trying to pull that shield around with him in a circle dance!"

He looked around at the sound of her laughter, his own lips twitching. "I imagine he drops it a lot, and curses."

"Gods don't curse. Who would they swear by?" She said, still laughing. He shrugged and sat down on a fallen tree, his eyes glittering.

"I don't know. Frogs? Ponies? Kings?"

"By horse's mane!" She suggested, sitting next to him. "By willow's trunk!"

They sat together for hours, joking and talking and laughing unheard over the crackle of the fire and the music that became more dissonant as the night drew on. If Sarra had been thinking of anything in this time she couldn't remember it- she remembered that she was having fun, and she was glad to have made a new friend. By the time the moon was above them they were teasing each other like old friends. She noticed that his shyness had slipped away, but he still didn't meet her eyes for more than a moment without looking away. It was as if he was afraid she'd see something there that he wanted to hide. The thought didn't trouble her- in such a close community as the village, if you had a secret you kept it to yourself. Stories spread like wildfire. Many people kept their thoughts to themselves. But he seemed quite honest and open about himself- he was a hunter, as she'd thought- and she found that she was being frank with him, too. When the wind changed and thick oily smoke poured into their path, he took her hand as if it was the easiest thing in the world, and they walked hand in hand like lovers. Even though they'd said less to each other than a few thousand words, they settled into a companionable silence as they walked. The sound of music and laughter faded behind them, but the thick smell of smoke seemed to follow, drifting around them like a cloak. With the new wind came the voice of the mountains, a cold note in the air that sang around them. Sarra shivered and looked around.

"I'll have to go home soon," She said, her voice resigned. "It's getting cold."

"You're cold?" He looked around again- the same gesture as he'd made before, as if he wasn't aware that the real world was happening around him. For a moment he raised his head like one of the woodland animals, almost sniffing the changed wind to test it, and then he relaxed and smiled. "Yes, it is getting cold."

"Glad you agree," the girl muttered, stamping her feet to warm them up. She saw a glimpse of a mischievous grin, and was suddenly swept into Warren's warm arms. She yelped- more from surprise than anything else- and Warren smiled.

"You owe me a dance, remember? And not a dance because everyone dances tonight, but a dance to keep you warm." He relaxed his arms slightly and rested one hand on her waist, and with relief she realised he really did mean to dance- one of the simple, repetitive folk dances that you can talk to. Without any music playing it seemed strange to follow his steps, but the man danced with an assurance that was easy to mimic. It was almost like someone was playing a reed flute that was too quiet to actually hear, but undeniably there. If she listened, she half imagined she could hear what he was dancing to...

"It's the music the forest sings," he said seriously. "The sounds of the rivers, and the leaves in the breeze, and even the worms twisting under the ground."

"Do they make a sound?" She asked, her voice light because she believed- hoped? - that he was joking. He smiled and nodded, watching her stained skirts whirl around her when she spun around.

"Everything makes a sound. But in the solstice, they sing. It's beautiful. I wish you could hear it."

Years later, when the music was common to her ears, Sarra still couldn't fit it into her memory. The beauty that he spoke about was different to her innocent ears, but that was the first time she could really remember listening to the world around her. From that moment on, her memory was full of sounds- the rustle of cloth as they danced, the gentle whisper of soft leather shoes on the dust, and above all the steady breaths that marked the beat. It was almost like a trance- a dance so utterly unlike the careless sprawling of the townsfolk that she could hardly recognise it. One dance became another, and another, and she knew all the steps without knowing a single one of the dances. And yet the world was still utterly silent to her, a place of movement wreathed in the scent of smoke and the blue glow of the moonlight.

Without thinking, almost without realising she was doing it, Sarra stopped dancing and simply stood still, safe in the warm sheltering arms of her partner, eyes half closed. It was like dreaming, like reaching through the slowness of sleep, but when she reached up and kissed him she was as awake as she'd ever been. She knew he was a god. She didn't know how she knew, but suddenly her eyes were able to see him for what he really was. He responded to her kiss in the silent spell they'd woven together, gently and warmly, not the blazing sunlight of his kin but the quiet love of the friend she'd grown close to in such a short time.

Every child speaks of the myths of gods, and declares what they would do if the gods ever spoke to them. The boys speak of valour and honour, and proving themselves with trials and strength. When they are older they might speak of the smith gods or the fisher gods, and how they will excel in their trade. The girls whisper of meeting the goddess, and being granted a boon. These are all things that come true. But when the children whisper stories of love, of women swept away by gods disguised as swans, or men overcome with the beauty of a goddess, it is with scorn. Normal people do not act in that way. You might be blessed in your work or your strength, but never in your love. Things like that just don't happen. People don't just fall in love with beauty. They're just silly stories to tell over a fire.

Of course, none of this crossed Sarra's mind in her smoke-scented dream. But as a goddess, she would have explained. The gods are capable of emotion, of love, just as mortals are. And imagine how much more a god can love us than even a mother, or a husband! A god doesn't just see you, or hear your voice, he sees your heart and he's known it since the day it was formed. When you hear these stories of people being swept away, they didn't decide in that second that they should do it. They were shown in that second the years where they've been loved, where someone hears their heart in a way that they thought was impossible. It's impossible to see that second of comprehension and not love them in return. Surrounded by the perfume of smoke and the sound of the wind in the trees, caressed by the caring moonlight, Sarra and Weiryn saw into each other's eyes, and this time neither of them looked away. The shaded light in the god's eyes was matched now by the light in Sarra's own, and they danced together... not because everyone else was doing it, but because they loved each other.

The second smoke stained memory was one that Sarra kept close to her heart, although she never spoke of either to anyone other than her daughter. And even then, she guarded her memories closely. She was wise enough to know that Daine would have memories of her own to cherish, and loving enough to know that the story would only cause her pain.

She knew that Daine wondered if she'd had some awareness of what would happen that day, but she couldn't think how to answer. She'd been woken up that day by the smell of smoke- sharper and richer than she could ever remember it being, save for that one night. She snapped out of her dreams frantically, her heart racing, but the memory faded with the scent and it was only the stove, crackling merrily in the centre of the room. Her daughter apologised for waking her up- she'd meant to do her chores and leave early, since she'd been asked to do work in the next village. Sarra blinked and nodded and agreed and stared at the stove. Her head spun slightly, and she wondered if she was ill. Then the feeling was gone, and all that she was left with was a slight feeling of unease. When Daine had left that morning, the dogs calling after her in the unsettling way that they always had, Sarra told her to stay the night in the next village. Even if there was nothing wrong here, it wouldn't hurt her to mix with people from another village for a few hours. The people in their own village looked at her strangely enough, with her dark hair and unsettling eyes.

The bitter scent built and faded throughout the day, as if small fires were breaking out and dying all around her. She even tried to witch the stove to stop it from smoking at one point, so frustrated by the strangeness of it all. But when the cottages in the village were set alight, she didn't realise it was a real fire until the bandits were at her door. And by then, it was too late to listen to the warning.

The scent of smoke built around her, and when she raised her hands it was like reaching through the depths of sleep...

... a warm hand took her icy one and held it tightly, the calm movements of a hunter calling the deer to him.

"I'm cold." She said, hearing her heartbeat echo in her ears even in the smothering stillness of the smoke. She couldn't see his face, his smile, but she could feel the love in his eyes when he answered her. His hand was warm, so warm, and the ice in her veins seemed to thaw for a brief moment.

"I know. But you'll be home soon," not a voice, not a sound that has to break through smoke, but over her own catching breath she could hear the strength of his, breathing for her in the acrid air. She smiled, and the brief moments of pain and the memory of what they had done to her faded. Lulled by the warmth of his touch and the richness of solstice smoke, she listened to her heartbeat until it was silent, and then she could hear the forest sing.


	3. Peachblossom

Huh. So you're thinking, just because I'm a horse, I don't have one of these memory things? Well, shows what you know, doesn't it? Just because you humans don't know how to listen doesn't mean I can't speak, despite what some long-faced pages might think. I'd give 'em a sharp nip for their troubles, and the same would go for you if I were talking to you, rather than to this papery stuff. Apparently it can keep words in one place 'til they're needed. Sounds suspicious to me. If you keep on talking too long in one place, you'll get in trouble. There'll be bandits, or soldiers, or those furry spidery things, and then you'd be in trouble, friend. Oh, you might give 'em a nasty paper cut, but sometimes you just can't beat a good set of hoofs.

Anyway, for the ones who aren't paying attention (and hello there to you, glad to meet you I'm sure) I'm Peachblossom. You might think that's a bit of a feeble name, but I guarantee you this: I am without a doubt the strongest, fastest peach blossom in the world. If I was called Hunter or Spirit or something like that there might be some competition- not much, mind you!- but as it is I am absolutely the best. There. Still think it's a sissy name? You tell that to Dumpling the next time he's around, and we'll see who's laughing...

Where was I? Oh yeah, memories. Now, some people would say it's the smell of leaf mould or a good bran mash that sets 'em thinking back to their colt years, but for me it's the twinge I get in these scars when the winter's setting in. They're not as bad as they once were, thank whatever human gods you like, but I still get a little nip from time to time, just to remind me, like. Now, the human who gave me these is happily not able to read papery things any more, on account of his being dead, but when I was a young, er, younger horse he was a squire in this palace. He was a bit of a nutter, which apparently has nothing to do with nuts and more to do with trying to hit anything that moved with sharp sticks. Most of the squires have their own horses, but he claimed that he was too good a horseman to limit himself, and that he should have the pick of the stables.

Now, when I was a younger horse, that pick of the stables was me. Okay, so I had a few problems with my temper, and I didn't get on well with the other horses- but what did they expect? I mean, sticking a prime, trained warhorse in with the dross and drays from half way across the world? It's enough to put you off your oats, really it is. I should probably mention for those of you not knowing of our stables, that this was also the time a human called Stephen started workin' here. He was just a hand at the time, seein' as how it was before the war when any guy chewing a straw could call himself a groom. He'd been working there a month, maybe. Made a bit of an impression on me, that one did, seeing as he always seemed to know when a chap fancies a handful of carrots mixed in with his breakfast. But not brilliant, because sometimes you fancied them for lunch as well, but he wouldn't give you any.

Anyway, he kept himself pretty much to himself. He was one of those humans that can fade into the corner, you'd sometimes turn around and there he'd be, smiling and just listening. He always had a kind word for one of the People, but for his own kin he had no softness. The man in charge of the stable at the time was an old soldier who was used to bellowin' orders and getting them followed, even by the poor ponies who didn't know what he wanted. There were never so many floggings as there were that year- and not just the horses, but the workers as well. Stephen never got so much as shouted out. It sometimes seemed like the soldier just couldn't see him, from where he was leaning against the wall. But he knew when Stephen had been around, for the harsh bits and spurs disappeared from the wall and were often found in the privy, floating next to the whips. No-one ever saw him do it but we horses, and we weren't going to tell anyone, were we?

Ah, I interrupted myself. Seems I was telling you about the squire. He'd just run a sweet mare near to madness, with her sides bruised from the way he kicked, and decided that she was too lazy and stupid to be his steed. The soldier was sent, puffing and bellowing, to find a horse with some fizz. Seems that it was me. Stephen was told to fit me with the heavy saddle the squire favoured, bein' one with lots of bits of shiny metal and bright coloured cloth that made our friendly human snort when he saw it. He'd been watchin' the squire tear his way through the animals for a few weeks now, and looked at him with the same glarin' eye that we did. And he looked at me, and saw that I had the same look in my eye, and just like that we had a plan. Don't know if we both had the same plan, mark you, but we both knew that the man had to be broken in, as you say. Still, we couldn't do anything then, and I decided to be a good little horse for a while, see how the land lies kind of thing. This lasted about five minutes, until the fat lump plumped himself down on that throne of a saddle with a big snort of breath, like he had climbed a mountain. And there was the soldier, trying to smile and looking like a man who'd eaten a carrot sideways without chewing, and there was Stephen eyeing the mounting steps like they had offended him. Well, I started sniggering, I did. Couldn't help it. This was the man who reckoned he could ride? I was so distracted that I didn't notice him trying to get me to move (he shouted "go", and then when that didn't work, kicked me in the ribs with the point of his boot.) Hang on, thought I, this isn't funny at all. His balance is wrong, he's not holding on to anything. I'm not a pack horse or a donkey, I don't have to carry potato sacks like this.

Well, I figured, he's going to fall off anyway. Might as well spare him the suspense.

The next time he kicked me, digging his foot painfully between my ribs, I simply stopped and bucked him off. He flew beautifully, like a plump chicken spinning through the air. And oh, of course he landed in the dirty straw pile. I believe I even saw Stephen step politely aside to let him fly more easily into the warm manure. He dug himself out, a vision in brocade and brown, spitting straw out of his mouth and spitting at the same time. He walked towards me with his whip in one hand, so of course I nipped at him. Only as a warning, like, but my teeth clicked an inch from his hand. He went white, then red, and then yelled at the soldier to get this horse out of his sight. And of course the soldier bellowed the same words at Stephen, and I let the man lead me out of the yard as docile as you please, still sniggering.

For the next few days we repeated this game, never getting more than a few steps away from the mounting block. My aim was getting quite good by the end of the week- I could throw the squire with almost pinpoint accuracy into the manure, and still the soldier smiled desperately and Stephen led me away as well behaved as a lapdog. By the next week the squire was furious, and utterly determined to prove that he could break in this horse- who he saw as ferocious and (I pride myself) dangerous. Crowds were beginning to gather, having heard the story of this man's great pride, when he returned the next day with an evil glint in his eye, and a pair of evil glints glittering on his boots. He threw himself into the ridiculous saddle with the same bovine elegance, and dug in with the spurs before I had a chance to get my breath back. And I ran, paper reader, I ran as far as I could and still he clung on, dug into my skin like an insect, screaming his victory as I thundered over the grass.

My memory is a cheerful one, reader, so I won't trouble you with the details. The squire found that I would run if he hurt me enough, and he stupidly believed that to be how he should ride. I still bucked him off from time to time, but he seemed to have the ability to bounce back, while the marks where his spurs had ripped my skin burned like ice. Stephen's anger at the man grew each time he brushed me down, for of course that was something the squire would not consider doing for himself. For every scar that healed there were two new ones, and for every time he dragged on the bit my mouth grew harder, until I was useless for anything but being dragged around by the mouth. By still I would not break, reader! I paid him back in nips and hoof-print bruises. I did not go mad like the mare had, nor did I go tame and let him ride around like a lord on a broken spirit. There was nothing I enjoyed more than sending him flying, and I cherished each memory as my skin hardened.

You must be wondering what happened to him, right? You would be right to ask, and I suppose I can't tell you this memory without speaking of it. You might have guessed by now that Stephen had something to do with it, and I did mention that he was dead… but not by any work of ours. I don't know whether I'm sorry for that or not. We certainly wore him down, and there were times when he was speechless with rage and words that he had no intelligence to spell. The man was cruel, and stupid, and yet when the Immortals attacked he was put in charge of a troop of soldiers, him being a full knight by that time. Determined to make a name for himself as a courageous warrior, he led his troop into a spidren lair, without even the aid of a mage to burn away the sticky webs. He never came out. I said he was dead, but for all I know he could still be stuck there. Strangely enough, most of his soldiers did get away, but none of them really explained what happened to him. So no, reader, I didn't kill him. But there was a reason that he didn't ride me into that cave, and I shall tell you that.

He decided to take one of the noble ladies to a lake that summer, in the kind of meaningless thing humans do when they're trying to impress each other. She was a little thing, wider than she was tall, with eyes that glowed when he lied to her about his daring tales. Of course, one of these tales was about how he'd tamed such a wild horse- surely she'd heard of the legendary Peachblossom, the one who no man could ride?

Well yes, she'd heard something like that. Or was it that there was a man who couldn't ride him? She couldn't recall. No, you're right, it must be your version. Ohh, what a brute of a horse! I would be so scared to ride it!

She wouldn't be able to anyway, was my thought. She was wearing the strange clothes that were in fashion that year: the ones where they walk like scarecrows in the fields, their arms too wrapped in stiff cloth to move. She looked even more silly than he did, which was impressive. He was failing to cut a fine figure in black velvet, which was already harbouring chaff from the straw. His voice was imperious when he ordered Stephen to saddle me up, he wanted to show this woman how fine he looked on this steed.

Well, Stephen looked at me as he put on the saddle, and for a split second it was like I could hear the human speaking to me. We couldn't hurt this man, or send him away, but we could humiliate him. The thought made us both snort, and when Stephen took special care fixing one side of the saddle I realised what he meant to do. I stood perfectly still and was completely calm when I was led out, not even flinching when the man's weight thudded heavily into the saddle. He was surprised at this, but didn't dare say anything in front of the lady, who had her hands clasped in front of her ample lace ruffles.

I trotted in a perfect circle around the riding enclosure, serene as a dressage pony. Encouraged, he spun me around to go the other way. As always when he turned, he leaned too far against the saddle. The tiny piece of string that Stephen had carefully tied it with snapped, and then- wonderful, beautiful memory- he slid gently down, still held by half the saddle, until he was hanging upside down under my stomach. I couldn't see him, of course, but the cursing that I could hear! It would make a plough horse skittish, it would. And of course, the lady was screaming and asking if he was okay, and he couldn't answer because he was too busy cursing, and he was completely stuck upside down. And then he was shouting for Stephen to help him, but the man was doubled over laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks, and beside him the other stable hands were pointing and calling to their friends.

Well, this is nice, thought I. I think I'll go for a walk. And so I did- trotting happily around in circles and figure eights, picking my feet up elegantly and shaking my mane like a colt. And for every step I could take I could hear the beautiful sound of cursing, and the occasional bump-bump-bump when we found a rise in the dust and my guest hadn't ducked in time. One of the stable boys was making a half-hearted effort to catch me, but I nipped away from him sharpish and looked around for my next adventure.

They'd worked over the enclosure as they did each day, shovelling the muck into one corner where the farmers could take it for their fields. Well, that looks like a nice place to stand, thought I innocently. It's in the sun and that, looks like there could be a few apple cores over there to, no reason not to go and explore, is there?

There was a heartfelt groan as I trotted towards the corner, Apparently, my invisible passenger didn't like the sun and apple cores. Strangely, closer to the pile of manure there were no apples to be seen. This was perplexing. I decided the best thing to do would be to stand there, sinking slightly into the compost, thinking about what to do next. It was perhaps a pity that this is where the stable boys caught me, for of course the first choked demand from the passenger was that he be freed. And so, of course, they cut the other strap, and he fell away with a cry and an enormous splat, straight into the heart of the pile.

I ran away then, making sure to kick back clods of the dirt onto the man as I turned away. Stephen waited by the gate, grinning widely for the first time since I'd known him. There was no sign of the lady, and there was an appreciative smattering of applause from all the men gathered in the yard.

The squire never asked to ride one of Stephen's horses again. In fact, I don't think he ever showed his face around the stables again. I had my reputation as a bad horse by then, but there was always a kind word from Stephen, and an extra apple at weekends.


	4. Roger

A memory..? Once again, you people are asking me to tell you the secrets of that next world, the things that lurk in the shadows. Well, I won't tell you. I see the fascination in your eyes when you look at me, seeing the lines on my skin that mark my time in the darkness, and yet you are afraid to ask. Even if I wanted to speak of it- which I don't, and never shall- I wouldn't have the words to describe it. Ask me all the questions you like, but there is no answer that you will understand. How can I describe the abyss, the sensation of being deafened by silence and lit by darkness? No, best not to ask. One day you will drink that cup for yourself, and only your faceless fear will be left to guide you there. That is not the memory I will tell you. I can choose my words, and my life, and only answer your questions when you already know the answers.

You've asked the others for the scents, the sounds of their lives, and so far I must say the answers have been tedious. They were the normal answers; smoke and mirrors, with your scars and pitiful emotions. Your days are full of things you can't touch, things that you wouldn't even notice if they were stolen away. Things that have no value.

My days had the lingering oiliness of wax. Wax? I hear you ask... but you do not know its value. It is such a strange substance- set and solid, and brittle to the touch, but smooth under the brush of warm fingers and so fragile in the smallest flame. It is intrinsically powerful; the very lives of hundreds of creatures go into its making, and when it glows it has a light and warmth that has nothing to do with what we create. It cannot be commanded, it must be coaxed.

Indeed, I have heard tell of more than one mage who cannot work with wax, who does not have the tactile gift of embracing the warm honeyed candles with the delicate fire that will destroy them. The secret is not in calling the fire to destroy, but in binding it to the wax. Mages believe that if they call strongly enough, if they demand the fire be born, then they are accomplished. But it is a greater skill to coax the flame into lighting itself. Charm works in magic as well as in politics, you know. When I was a teacher, I shared this knowledge with my students, and they smiled as if I was joking.

The cheaper wax reeks of bitter fat, and melts in unpredictable clumps. But the expensive wax, the lifetime work of thousands of fragile insects- ah, to touch it is like stroking soft skin, and the scent is more than the sweetest perfume. Women sometimes rub it into their skin, softening themselves into something closer to this divine smoothness, but their mortality breaks the illusion and, after all, they are only rotting shells. Wax is eternal.

I suppose I could have killed my victims in any number of ways. It made me laugh, the way that their eyes remained resolutely shut to even the most blatant treachery in their midst. Blind faith is always so... so obstinate. I could have paraded my victims under their noses, and still they would have smiled and called me Friend. A dagger slipped into the back, a spell to make them trip and fall down the curving stone stairs, and who would have suspected the poor Duke, beside himself with grief, and yes of course I'll take up the crown, for my family's sake, until the poor lad has got over his sorrow. Look at him, sickened by tears and loneliness. He's quite a shadow of his former self. He must look after himself, or he'll be quite vulnerable to the sweating sickness...

Ah yes, such things would work. But they lack the finesse which you would expect from someone such as I, and I find that the gods are forgiving if we give them a show. The old crimes are predictable and boring to their eyes. And I would never forgive myself for letting my natural showmanship be shadowed by my ambitions. The fun is in the game, not in the score, and I was happy to play for as long as possible. And, of course, the wax called to me.

I am happy to tell you these secrets, for I know that you could never do what I did. You are weak, or frightened. Even the best mages know that terror. As soon as you can call a flame into life you are a mage, but it is the person who knows how to destroy the fire that will triumph. So, the secrets of wax will be wasted, but my skill will not be forgotten. Listen carefully.

The wax is not enough on its own. It is crude and wanton, lavishly smoothing its curves for any person who decides to touch it. But mix it with blood, the dark red blending into the molten amber, and the wax blushes with the pink hue of life. And this was the wax that formed my plan.

I smoothed the shapes of their faces, knowing every curve of their waxen skin better than I knew my own. Each creation breathed with its own lungs and flushed with the vitality they possessed, shaped by my magic into something beyond mere dolls. This is how:

A few trinkets, a few things that focus the Gift: a strand of hair, a drop of sweat. Clothes that adorn the mighty and the many. Spells and words that will have no meaning to you, but which whisper in your ears for days after you have spoken them. Every creation is beloved and close because it is a part of yourself, a child of your blood and your time and magic... and each creation is despised, because it is the complete miniature of the one you wish to destroy. You speak the final words, and carve the last symbol into the flesh above their hearts, digging deeply with the knife. If you have done it right, they will bleed, and the blood will be their own.

And here I had a problem, listener, because I did not know what I wanted to do next. I had plans, oh yes, but they were many and varied. Each one had its own charm, and each one had its weaknesses. Wax is weak; it can be destroyed by wind or fire or water or even by the scratching of the dust. And perhaps here I hesitated. I set the dolls aside, still bleeding from their unfeeling wounds, and decided to wait.

I slept deeply that night, but I awoke suddenly when the moon was bright in the sky. I felt uneasy, and I couldn't tell why. My room was the same as always- the cold stone covered by the warmth of tapestries and furs, the worktables carefully tidied. The walls were warded, as they always were, protecting my sleep from idle ears that might take a sleep-talker seriously. There was nothing amiss, and the windows and doors were closed. And yet it seemed that there was someone else in the room. I called a mage-light into being and looked around, but there was no-one there. Of course there wasn't. And I still felt uncomfortable. When I moved, the light deepened the shifting shadows.

It's just the traces of a forgotten nightmare, I thought. Angry at myself for my irrational fear, I lay down and tried to sleep. But I couldn't. I lay there, feeling the ice in my veins and the sweat on my bones until the sun rose in the sky.

This happened for several nights. I would snatch a few hours sleep in the evening, but when the velvet night crept back I couldn't make my eyes close. I dismissed it- I'm distracted, I'm sick, perhaps I'm not eating the right food- but the fear would not go away. And still, constantly, the sensation that there was someone in the room with me. It was as if each night they were moving, were getting closer. I could almost hear breathing in the sigh of the wind, and the slight creaks the castle makes in the silence of night were footsteps to my ears. Every time I shut my eyes I was afraid to open them, in case another pair of eyes looked back.

And yet nothing ever moved in the blue moonlight. It was worse and worse each night, the ice that crept into my feet and spread through my stomach. As the moon began to wane I thought in dread of the night when it would be dark, when I would be left alone with this fear in the smothering night. The dark of the moon would be the time that it struck, if it was going to. I knew it with a cold certainty. Darkness is the dwelling of the black magics and the gods that laugh at anguish. I panicked the day before, hardly in my right mind. I thought frantically of sleeping in another room, of turning to one of the women whose eyes slanted sideways when we spoke. But I didn't- I couldn't. In the daylight, all my fears seemed ridiculous. And such women disgusted me.

This is ridiculous, I scolded myself. I'm not a child. I resolved to sit wakeful for the whole night of darkness, not sleeping in the evening, and see if this intruder still crept in. What did I have with me...? I can't recall. There was a sword, for I always have one nearby, and of course there was a candle by the bed. Mage light is always better, but if you wish to see for a long time it gets tiring to carry around your vision in one hand. I waited as the last blue light of day faded. I waited as the branches of the forest rattled in the wind, and told myself it wasn't the sound of dancing bones. I waited as the wind breathed in, a loud gasp that fled through the chimney. I waited as the room grew cold and icy fingers shivered on my spine. I waited, and nothing happened. And so, exhausted, my eyes closed and I waited in my sleep.

I don't want to speak of what happened next. I shiver even speaking about it, although to this day I can't be sure if I slept or if I saw it with my waking eyes. But I must finish this story- I must explain- for at the moment I sound like a coward. And I despise cowards.

As I said, I slept.

When my eyes opened the room was darker than the bowels of dream. The warmth of sleep was gone, and the place was icy. I couldn't see anything, vulnerable behind sticky sleep-filled eyes and muddied thoughts. But I could hear, and suddenly the wind wasn't breathing outside but in my chamber. And the rattling sound wasn't the trees- it couldn't be, for it was coming from inside the room. And the sound that came from the doorway- oh, it was terrible! A moan, a gasp of anguish and rage, cold and dead and horribly alive at the same time, quiet enough to make me wonder if I'd dreamed it, loud enough to paralyze me with terror.

This was the presence that had been here for weeks, coming closer each night, seeking me in the darkness. And now, it had found me. I would have grasped for the candle, but I couldn't make myself move. I would have called light, but the thought turned to ash on my tongue. The moan was wordless, but I could hear the accusation. There was a coppery sharpness in the air and a sweetness, something cloying and choking in the ice that I breathed.

The moan became louder- a percussive sound echoed like a footfall- and I suddenly realised there was more than one thing in the room. There could be any number, but I was sure of two- one by the door, one by the window. The floorboards creaked by the wall, and I could hear them moving- one, two, three, how many! And still I couldn't see anything. I could hardly breathe- the harsh, choking breaths would surely betray me.

I shut my eyes tightly- the only part of my body that I could force to move- and willed them to go away. Still the sounds came closer, and the room seemed to get colder. There was a deadness in the sound, as if it was being blocked by something, and I realised they were surrounding me. I could feel their breath brushing my cheeks- fetid and foul and dead, tainted with the sourness of blood. Each breath they took choked in their throats as if they were drowning. Each moan was a cry of pain and accusation. And yet they stood, not moving, but if I reached out a hand a single inch from my bed I felt sure I would have touched one.

I shook, and sobbed with fear, and the last thing I remember was the cold iciness of fingers touching my skin. The flesh of my cheek burned after the finger traced down it, unbearably cold but smooth, so smooth, a pain of terror that was more than the pain of touch, and I fainted.

I awoke the next morning, shocked to be alive and safe, and warm and comfortable in my own bed. It was like waking from a nightmare. My stomach still ached from terror, and my arms spasmed with shudders when I rose. But I was alive, and I had no explanation for what had happened. And when I looked at the bed I shrieked.

The sheets were coated in blood- covered in it, shiny and wet and still dripping to the floor. And when I reached out to it, the stuff was still warm. I realised then that it was wax- the flesh wax, so mixed with blood that it could never set, staining the floor and the bed and my skin where I had been lying in it. I raised a hand to my face where the cold fingers had touched my skin, and they came away wet with the same horrible mess. I gasped, and stared at it, and suddenly I was staring at my own clean skin. There wasn't a trace of the bleeding wax anywhere to be seen. I laughed! A dream! A waking nightmare, sure, but nothing more than that. I had been sick for a few days, and hallucinated. Of course, as a respected mage, I should know that it's impossible for things to just appear in a guarded room like that, and even more unlikely that so much blood should appear from nothing. It was probably my subconscious mind trying to tell me something.

Of course, you can guess my thoughts. The dolls that I had left bleeding were still lying on the table, neatly lined up, and the wax that leaked from their wounds barely touched the surface of the wood. But they weren't just dolls, were they? They were the mortals they were shaped for, complete and tortured for weeks with my carvings. And yet the idea was ridiculous- dolls do not walk around, and they certainly can't be invisible or loom over a bed in the middle of the night. These things had never been moved.

Still, I thought, even if it was an awful dream, perhaps there is a point to it. I have hesitated for too long. Something must be done to destroy these dolls before someone finds them.

That was the day that I smoothed over their wounds with fresh wax, stopping the flow of blood, and created the fountain which you have heard about, I'm sure.

So, there you have it. My memory is nothing more than a sick man's dream, and a story of wax. May it bring you joy, I grant you, for you'll get nothing more from me. My memories are my own.


	5. Stormwing

Those were the hungry months. We remember them well, not for the wars that were being fought in distant lands, or the passionate stories that were playing their lines in the nearby towns, but for the hunger. There was a weariness in the air- the tired cry of a thousand people, so sick of battle and so used to the terror of the battlefield that fear no longer had any meaning to them. They were dimly aware that they should be afraid, and yet they couldn't spend a scrap of their energy in actually feeling the sharp needles of icy terror. We could taste it on them, the scent of food where none exists, like the ghost of bread outside a closed bakery. We couldn't fly screaming into the battlefield in our usual way, drinking deeply of the coppery spice of terror. We hungered for the meat of it, and there was none to be found. After a month of futile fighting we retreated to roost for this famine, saving our strength and waiting for the harvest to arrive, as it always does. The place we found was nearly deserted- a small valley in the mountains, too high for mortal feet to climb- and yet there was a tiny hut there. We thought it was deserted for weeks, until the day when the woman appeared.

I should explain the taste of fear. Some imagine it to be like mortal taste, but really that is only a word. We can't explain the flavour of it, only the sustenance that it gives. There are stronger fears and weaker fears just as there are stronger ales or more potent tastes, but again there is no comparison. A battle fear will feed us for weeks, a single cry being as filling as a banquet. A child screaming at a nightmare will make us feel full, but it is a paltry dish. And then there are the other fears- delectable and delicate. I suppose you can be a connoisseur of fear just as you can with food, and of course some Stormwings are. Although we are built to bathe in the blood of battle, some find more glee in the smaller things. The tremble of fear that you feel when you find out a secret, or the fleeting dart that a you might feel before you surrender your body to your lover- these are delicious indeed. But they are rare, and as difficult to catch as quail. You cannot live off them. You will be hungry. But, for some, the taste is worth the hunger.

The woman in the valley did not feel any fear at all. She fascinated us. She seemed as old as the mountains and as gnarled as the trees. We laughed and mocked her for her age, for her limping walk, for her loneliness. We asked her if she was pretty when she was young, or if she had always looked like a turnip. We offered to scratch out her eyes with our claws so she need not see her decaying body rot around her. The usual things that we say to make people fear us. Hungry as we were, we didn't care that we were on her land, or that such a hermit might be beloved of a god. We wanted to taste the sweetness again, and here was this woman.

She laughed at us, and there was no fear in her mind. This was not bravado, she was genuinely amused. We tried harder. We swooped at her. We cut at her arms and legs, watching the watery blood seep into her ragged clothes. And still she laughed until we stopped, nonplussed. We couldn't kill her- she was of no use to us dead. She went back into the house with the pot of water she'd gone to collect from the brook, and we were left alone with our hunger.

The next time she emerged we tried something else- speaking to her. We asked about her family, her friends. She shrugged and did not reply. We offered to kill her children for her, or to desecrate their remains. She laughed again. We could not scare her. It was like speaking to someone without fear. Even when we rocked the beams of her house she did not fear. Why, she asked us, should she fear for her life to be ended? She already knew her days were numbered.

Well, this was confusing. We decided to leave the woman be- there was no point in harrying her any more. We flew to the surrounding villages to drink their small fears, the fear of sparks escaping from the fire into the straw. It kept us alive, and from the madness of hunger that our kind falls prey to. And each day we roosted in the valley, making it our home. Once we'd gotten used to the woman's eerie lack of emotion, we found that she was a good companion. She made up stories, stories of lands far away. She never spoke about her own life, but joked about ours and made up tales of our adventures.

Sometimes she played on an ancient wooden flute, and we listened with interest. She wasn't good- her breath whistled at each lungful, let alone when she played, and her fingers creaked with arthritis- but the sound fascinated us. We, obviously, can never use these mortal tools. She showed us how it worked, how blocking the notches in the wood made the sound deeper or higher. She showed us how you can make different sounds by smiling or frowning when you play. All these things might sound simple to humans, but to us it was a whole different world.

We stayed with her for a few months, a strange peaceful interlude. In that time, we never tasted so much as a breath of fear from her. In the autumn, we decided it was time to return to the battlegrounds. The mud, you see, makes people fear. They feel trapped; they know that if they are struck down they might die the horrible drowning death rather than the quick battle execution. Like I said, the harvest always arrives. Wetting our lips with tantalising expectations, we took wing and left.

The first weeks of terror we spent in mindless delight, letting our nature control us and drinking in the delicious food along with their hapless, muddied blood. We shrieked and played and danced in the air, waiting for the next morsel to come our way. We felt bloated as the scavenger birds that pecked at the bones. Yet one part of my mind whispered to me constantly, and once I had my fill of food I left my flock and flew back to the valley. I have lived for thousands upon thousands of years, and never have I seen anything like that woman. To find something new like that isn't just interesting, it creates an obsession. My hunger for information- to watch the woman and find out what made her like that- was greater for the first time in my life. And so I flew.

I reached the hut around sunset and was hit by a wall of pure terror. It was so thick, so dark- like treacle or the honey that you find in the heart of the hive. It was delicious but I didn't eat it- like I said, I didn't hunger for food. But at the same time I felt my interest wane- this fear had the print of the woman on it like her eyes were staring from every part of it. I flew down to the hut, already bored, and stared through the window.

The woman looked up from the fireplace, hands over her eyes. "Oh, it's you!" She said, her voice quavering with more than just age, "I was so scared you were never coming back!"

I blinked once, turned away from the window, and left. I never returned.


	6. Daine

The girl opens her eyes.

She is in a room she doesn't recognise, lying in a bed that seems too large without the familiar bulk of her mother lying beside her. She doesn't know what's wrong with the room- it isn't a large room at all, but it seems massive to her country eyes. The walls are made of stone, not wood, and they're plastered over with bright whiteness, not the greyish mould that most plaster takes after a few years. So... a strange room in a strange building. But somehow she isn't as scared as she should be. After all her ma's stories of people being abducted, and the other children's laughing jokes about the fairies stealing away little girls for their magic spells, she should be terrified. But she stares at the wooden beams in the ceiling and blinks and thinks, and realises that more than anything else she feels... thirsty.

There is a glass of water on a chest by the bed, and she reaches for it. Her hand feels clumsy and trembles at the effort. The girl guesses that she must be ill. Maybe her ma had brought her here, to a healer's house. But she can't remember any healer who lives in a stone house, unless it's in the keep. She must be really sick, if that's the case.

Well, her head aches horribly. The story seems to fit. She relaxes and closes her eyes. Ma has work in the village, and the animals to look after, but the girl is sure that when ma's finished she'll be back and they can go home. When she wakes up a second time the white plaster is orange in candlelight, and her ma still isn't there.

The candle is wrong. It's the sweet golden colour of beeswax, not the usual greyish fat that splutters out sparks. Ever the practical child, the girl sighs at the needless extravagance- to light a room with such an expensive candle, when the only person who could see it is asleep! She decides the healer must be slow in the head, or at least a show-off, which is almost as bad.

"You're awake!"

The noise makes her wince. It's like bees buzzing furiously inside her head. She curls up and raises her clumsy hands to her temples, waiting for the pain to go away. A cool cloth touches her forehead and she jumps at the sensation, but takes hold of the cloth with relief. When she can open her eyes again without feeling pain she looks up at the man who had spoken, unconsciously calling him the healer in her mind. She doesn't recognise him. He doesn't look Gallan- his hair and eyes are both dark, not like the blonde-and-blue locals. She guesses he might be a travelling healer, maybe a mage apprenticed out to the local healer. So she stares at him, memorising him- any traveller is a rich source of gossip for the village children.

He gently takes the cloth from her and turns to a basin of cold water, soaking it before giving it back. Her hands still feel clumsy when she takes it- almost like they're too big. The healer smiles, relief in his eyes when she stares back again.

"I'm glad you're awake, Daine! You've been asleep for nearly a week, you know."

Ah, so now the girl has a name. Strange, she thinks with a frown, that I didn't remember it before. And it sounds odd coming from this healer man, with his expensive candles and stone walls. Ma always got snobbish around healers like this, and it was Miss Veralidaine, thank you kindly. No point having a full name if you can't use it to put the high-and-mighty in their place once in a while, right?

The girl wishes she wouldn't. It embarrasses her. The next question is always about her second name, and then comes the staring at the floor, not wanting to look up at their sneering expression. But this healer uses her name like he knows her. With the sudden impetuous judgement of a child she decides that she likes him. If he is a snob, he doesn't act like it. I wonder how ma talks around him?

It takes her a few tries to speak, and her voice croaks and seems deeper than it should be. "Where's ma?"

He frowns at the question, and she wonders if he heard her right. Or maybe she said the wrong thing- some grownups get offended if you don't thank them at the right time. "Thank you for looking after me, sir, I feel lots better, I promise. Can I please see my ma now?"

He looks as if he's about to say something, and then pauses and sits still, one hand tugging absently at his nose. After a few moments he smiles weakly and answers her question. "Yes, of course you can. But I have to ask you some questions first, just to see if you're better. Can you... do you feel well enough to do that?"

"I guess." Sudden panic makes her ask, "Mam's not sick too, is she?"

He rests his head in his hands for a moment, as if he's tired. "No... no, she's not sick." When he looks up, his face has a mask of calm on it. Daine recognises it- ma has the same trick when she's talking to someone who's really ill- and the panic doesn't go away. The healer must see the sudden terror in her eyes, because he reaches out and holds her hand soothingly.

"What's your name, then?" He asks, his eyes almost teasing, almost serious. Daine lifts her chin stubbornly and tells him her first name and, after he prompts her, her hated surname. The smile at her answer isn't the usual frozen mockery that greets the word "Sri", and she smiles back. After that she answers quickly, like it's a game they're playing- what's her favourite colour, animal, food, what colour are her eyes. They're all silly questions, and by the time he asks her how old she is she almost giggles as she answers, "Nine."

"Nine?" The healer stands up abruptly and raises his hands to the ceiling. "Dear Mithros, nine!"

"Did I get it wrong?" She asks, almost in tears. He shakes his head and sits down again slowly.

"Do you know what my name is?" He asks, his voice quieter this time. She thinks for a moment and shakes her head, forgetting that her head aches until the movement makes the room spin.

"You didn't tell it to me yet." She smiles shakily. "Can I see my ma now?"

He shakes his head slowly. "No, you're right, I didn't." He stands up again and paces across half the room before speaking. "Look Daine, I have to go and speak to... um, your mother. It might take a while before I get back, so will you try and sleep while I'm gone?"

Nothing easier. The girl is already yawning, her eyes sticking together like pieces of flea-grass. She doesn't hear the door close.

888

"You still didn't tell me your name," She says the next time she wakes up. The man seems calmer this time. She wonders if he'd lost his calm because he was just an apprentice, and his master had told him off for it. But he seems too old to be in training, and too sure of himself to freak out. Maybe he was just having a bad day. He sits in the chair next to the bed and has a friendly voice, and only his eyes are different- sharp and watchful. In a way she likes his watchfulness- most grownups don't pay attention to what children say. But he seems genuinely interested.

He also answers her questions easily and without asking why she wants to know, or telling her she's all together too nosy for such a little girl. He watches her face when he answers, as if she was the one speaking.

"My name is Numair," he smiles crookedly, "Pleased to meet you."

"Is that your real name?" The impertinent question is out before she thinks about it, and she clamps her clumsy hand over her mouth in horror. "I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean to be rude!"

"It's fine. Just... don't call me sir." He leans forward, looking intrigued. "Why would you ask something like that?"

She chews her lip, wondering. The question seemed to come out of nowhere, like the reason for it was hiding away somewhere. "I don't know. It doesn't sound like... I mean, it sounds like a name someone made up. Real people are called things like... like Sarra, or Ben, or Jon. Was your da an actor or something?"

"He was a performing monkey." She laughs at the daft answer, even as he asks her another question. "Who do you know called Jon? It's not a Gallan name."

"I don't know..." It takes her a moment longer to think about it, to search for the hidden reason. "I guess I just heard it somewhere..."

888

Daine woke up. She pulled herself upright on shaking arms, surprised to be in her own room in the castle. The last thing she could remember was being in the forest, quite far away, looking for the herd of unicorns she'd heard calling in the morning. She could also remember passing out, although she wasn't quite sure why... she didn't feel ill. If someone was going to faint they should at least have a headache at the end of it.

She realised when she tried to stand up that she must have been asleep for a long time. Her legs had the horrible shaking feeling that they always got when she'd used up all her magic. The thought made her pause- was that what had happened? She sat down on the edge of the bed to think about it, not admitting to herself that her own legs wouldn't hold her upright.

The door opened and she looked up, smiling at the lanky mage who stopped short in the doorway and stared at her for a moment. "You're sitting up!" He said.

She smiled wryly. "Point out the obvious, Numair. You might as well start with the fact that I'm awake and work your way up from there." She stretched her arms out in front of her, trying to work out some of the stiffness. "Have I been sick or something?"

"I've just been talking to the healers about you, actually." He sat down in a chair that was by the bed and ran a hand absently through his hair. "Two hours ago you were absolutely convinced that you were nine years old and back in Galla."

"No I wasn't, I was asleep." She could hear the doubt in her own voice even as she spoke. If this was a joke it was the weirdest one she'd ever heard. People do strange things when they're feverish...

"But surely, if I was hallucinating, then I wouldn't be feeling so much better now?" She asked, almost pleading.

"Well that's the thing, you were perfectly lucid. I was having whole conversations with you." Numair's eyes were bright, and Daine sighed in mock-anger at his answer.

"Trust you to find the whole thing fascinating. What happened?"

He blinked and looked at her. "You fell asleep and woke up as you again."

"No, I meant in the forest." She waved a hand idly, dismissing the whole hallucinating episode for now. "I can only remember walking. Did I find the unicorns?"

He frowned, thinking seriously about the question. "There were hoof-prints all around you when we found you. You weren't back by dark, so we scried for you. When we found you, you were burning with fever, and the healer said it was probably a cold that got worse because of the chill in the air, or something. And then you didn't wake up, so he changed his opinion to a cold that had gotten worse because you'd used all of your gift. And then you woke up thinking you were a child and I think he went and cried in a corner somewhere."

"Maybe someone left a spell trap." Daine looked at her hands, wondering why they seemed slightly too big. Numair shrugged.

"Maybe. But I couldn't see anything in the clearing."

"Just hoof prints," she echoed. The words seemed to buzz in her ears, and she blinked to shut out some of the glaring light that made her head start to hurt and the room spin. Her legs had gone numb, like the worst kind of pins-and-needles. "Did you say I thought I was... nine, was it?"

The man nodded, and had to jump up rapidly to catch the girl as she swayed forward, falling off the bed. Daine rubbed her forehead with clumsy hands, scowling at the annoying buzzing and the pain and trying to remember her train of thought before the buzzing darkness climbed from her traitor body into her mind.

"If she's nine, then she'll remember the other unicorn. Ask her." She gripped Numair's sleeve tightly, silently beseeching, waiting until he nodded his agreement before she let herself black out.

888

"I didn't mean it, about it sounding like a fake name." The girl rattles on nervously, wondering why the healer looks so dismal and if it's her fault for being rude. "I mean, my name sounds made up too, right? And we can't help our names, or I'd have changed mine the minute I could talk."

He blinks and remembers the conversation. The grin that crosses his face is rueful. "I said I wasn't offended, Daine. You don't have to keep apologising."

"But if I say the right answers, you'll let me see my ma, right?" She speaks quickly, her face trusting and anxious. "If I prove I'm not still sick."

"But you are still sick- your head still hurts, right?" The healer waits patiently until she reluctantly nods, and then spreads his hands in an apologetic gesture. "You don't want your mother to get sick too, do you? Anyway, I'm not keeping her from you or anything. She had to go and see a woman a few villages over. She thinks she saw a unicorn, and it cursed her unborn baby or something."

Daine's voice is scornful, surprisingly adult, as she talks about silly women with their stupid fancies. Numair thinks about scolding her, but it's clear after a few sentences that she is more angry at her mother for leaving her than at any fictional woman.

"This happens all the time," she finishes. "It's not like she's obliged to help any of them, and lots of them don't even pay her. You'd think she was a goodwill fairy or something."

"Surely people don't see unicorns all the time, though." Numair is rather proud of the easy way he brings the conversation around; although this probably has more to do with the way he spent hours practicing in his head and less to do with any real skill. Daine shrugs, the blanket scratching at her shoulders when she moves, and spends a moment freeing her arm. The man recognises the shrug as a crude version of the shrug the adult Daine has now perfected. When she uses it, it's usually because she feels uncomfortable talking about something, and simply wants to dismiss it. Apparently when Daine was nine she was a less practiced liar. He grins at the thought and changes tactics.

"I have a friend," he says in the tones of a storyteller, "Whose job is to work with immortals. Where she comes from there are lots more of them, and the people don't know much about them, so she talks to them and finds out what they want. That way they don't fight. But she doesn't know much about unicorns- although she's always wanted to- so I don't know if they curse babies or not."

"Of course they don't!" Daine covers her mouth with her free hand again, wishing she would think before she speaks. How many times has ma told her- never let strangers know what you can do, what you can hear! And yet here she is, blabbing like an infant to a man with a fake name. But some part of her trusts him completely. Didn't he get her better when she was sick? And doesn't he listen when she talks? And he has absolute belief written in his eyes, not the frightened expression of the people who used to call her a liar and chase her away from the flocks.

Another part of her whispers in her head, like another voice. It feels older, wiser, like it's trying to guide her to do the right thing. It's not like a mother- more like an older sister- and when she still hesitates it insists as stubbornly as she resists. The girl sighs and starts to talk quietly, thinking that if she's accused of lying she can always claim it was the fever talking.

"They don't curse people. They're really nice. Or, I think they are. I only saw one. I never told anyone. It was in the forest, it was sick, and it called out like it was crying. It was like a horse, but more golden, and its sickness was a dark stain. When I found it I could see it was dying. It was thin and sick, but something had got to it, and it was bleeding down its side. I thought it was a pony until I saw the horn.

"It was all alone, and it was crying, and all I could do was cuddle it and tell it everything was going to be okay. It knew I was lying, but it got more peaceful. And then it... it was like a pulling, like when you're falling asleep and your mind starts to fly away, you know? But it wasn't my mind, it was something else. And I could tell the unicorn was pulling something out of me, but I don't know what it was or how it was pulling. And I got scared... really scared. And I ran away. And I never saw it again." The girl's face is damp with tears, which the man wipes away gently. She turns away from him, wanting to be alone. "I tried to forget it. I did forget it, until now. I knew he didn't mean me any harm, but I still ran away."

"Anyone would have." The healer's voice is as gentle as his hand is on hers. "It's scary to have the gift just dragged out of you like that, and when you're so young..."

"I don't have the gift. I don't." The girl buries her face into the pillow and pulls her hand away. She suddenly hates him, for sounding so reasonable and adult when the kindest thing to do would be to tell her she's a silly girl and ignore her story so she can forget it again. Why does he have to go on about it? Why did she tell him? When she hears him take a breath to speak again she punches the blanket weakly, furiously. "Oh, just go away and leave me alone!"

She's half surprised that he does. Her ma would have yelled at her for being so rude to a healer. When his footsteps fade she's left alone with her horrible hollow tears and memories, and she drags them down into her dreams with her when she sleeps.

888

The next time that Daine woke up, with no memory of the story she'd told a few hours before, it was Numair's turn to explain about unicorns. She listened without interrupting, her eyes gradually filling with sympathy as she remembered the things he was describing. By the end of the story she matched the tears of her nine-year-old self, hardly aware that she was crying.

"Poor thing," She said, "I remembered something about unicorns, once, but I couldn't remember anything else about it. I was really little when it happened- only five or six. All it wanted was to be healed, and I ran away."

"Why is it important?" Numair asked, handing her a biscuit. She ate it ravenously, speaking between bites.

"Well, I must have met the unicorns here. There are no wild horses or ponies in the forest, so they're the only ones who could leave hoof prints. And it seemed like too much of a coincide... coinci-thingy that I'd have no memory of meeting them and no memory of talking to you. The only thing I could think of was maybe I was supposed to remember something about unicorns. And I guess that was it."

"Coincidence." The mage correctly absently. Daine shrugged.

"That too. So, will you help me get through the forest?"

"What?" Numair glared at the girl, who quite unconcernedly reached for another biscuit and located her clothes. The man hurriedly turned his back so she could get dressed. "You can't go into the forest, you're ill! And it's the middle of the night!"

"Middle of the night, half way to dawn..." It was a strange sing-song, and when Daine looked up her eyes were deadly serious. "If the unicorns made me sick, then they're the ones who can make me better. So I need to go and talk to them. It's simple."

"That's one hell of an "if", Daine. It could just as easily be a perfectly explainable medical phenomenon..."

"Yes, I hear all the time about people turning into children and losing their memories." Daine stood up and took a few steps, grinning with triumph at the small victory. "Not to mention people being cured by miracle biscuits."

Numair stood up and passed her the last piece of food. "You're an awful patient, you know." He said as they walked out of the door. Despite himself, he agreed with her. And even if there wasn't some strange magical reason for all of this strange week, he was relieved to have the Daine he knew back again. It was definitely unsettling to have a child speaking with her voice, calling him sir and asking for her mother.

The path that they took led directly from the remains of the old castle wall, into the depths of the forest that were too dense to ride through. Even if they wanted to, Daine wouldn't have risked taking Cloud with her- the woods were so dark that it would be too easy for the pony to get stuck or trip up, and most of the trail was so narrow it was more like a rabbit path. Numair cast a soft mage-light ahead of them which mainly blackened the shadows. Daine walked strongly, although neither of them was sure how long that would last. If it was anything like the last time she was awake she could just black out at any moment.

The trail wasn't too long- only a mile or so- but after a few hundred twisting metres Daine had to sit down and wait for her traitor legs to behave themselves. Every time she stopped to rest it took a few minutes longer for her to stop shaking, and the third time she stopped she realised with dull certainty that there was no way she'd be able to stand up again. Her feet felt like lead weights on the end of thin pieces of thread, ready to either break or root her to the ground. She rested her face against the trunk of the tree next to her and tried to choke back her tears- she hated feeling this helpless!

She was aware that Numair was standing nearby, waiting patiently for her to move, and her voice was muffled against the bark when she spoke to him. "If you want to say "I told you so," now would be the time to do it."

"Now why would I do that?" Numair picked her up easily, his voice amused. "That would just be showing off, don't you think?"

"You can't carry me all the way there." Daine rested her head against his chest, her own voice apologetic. She could hear the rumble of his laughter over his heartbeat before he replied.

"I carried you all the way back last week, and you've only eaten a few miracle biscuits since then. You probably weigh less than Kitten right now."

Daine laughed at that, and didn't object any more to his carrying her. It was strange, she thought, that she didn't feel as helpless now as she had before. She thought it might be because she was heading towards the unicorns again, but it was more than that... Numair never once acted like he was doing her a favour, more that they were working together towards a mission like they did when she was healthy. She wondered what her younger self had told him, and if she'd embarrassed herself. She wondered if she would even find out.

"Numair," She said quietly after a while. The man looked down and smiled an acknowledgement, still walking. Daine thought about how to explain, and then realised that she should just be honest.

"Numair, I'm... terrified."

He made an incredulous sound. "I've never known you to be scared. And you said the unicorns are friendly."

"Did I say that? Because I can't remember. That's what scares me, not the unicorns. Just the fact that a whole part of my life is just... not in my head any more. You can remember me saying things that I can't even think about saying. What if tomorrow I can't remember who I am, or who you are? It'd be like losing everything. All the things we talk about, and laugh about, or even things we fight for, just... gone."

"You didn't remember me." The man's voice was measured, but there was a trace of pain in his own words. Daine wondered what she'd said that had hurt him, and apologised. He shook his head abruptly at the words and interrupted.

"For Mithros sake don't apologise. It's not your fault, and you can't even remember forgetting me." He laughed bitterly at the idea. "I don't blame you for being scared, sweetling. It terrified me, too. I just hoped that you would... forget being scared."

"Maybe I should." Daine murmured, almost to herself. She reached up with a hand that, for now, was exactly the right size, and hugged Numair tightly. He stopped walking and held her close.

"I don't mind forgetting being scared," She whispered, "But I'm so frightened that I might lose you. I don't know what I'd do without you, in my mind or my life or my memories. It terrifies me that someone could take that away from me, and suddenly it would be gone. Please don't let me forget you."

He didn't answer, but he held her so tightly for a moment that she could hardly breathe. How could he reply to her- that he had no control over her mind, that he couldn't stop her memories drifting away any more than he could stop sand flowing through an hourglass? But he knew that she knew that too. He had stopped her mind from bleeding into her magic once before, and maybe she thought it was the same thing... a last desperate hope.

"I'm sure the unicorns will take back whatever they did to you." He didn't let go, but he could feel her shaking at the thought of returning to whoever had stolen her memories in the first place. The bravado that she'd shown in the castle was pure desperation here in the dark. He set her down on a fallen tree trunk and waited for her to stop trembling, keeping one arm around her shoulders until she did.

"You know, when I was a student there was a fashion for making trinkets, to remember people by." He told her conversationally, not sure if she was really listening. "It was before long-distance speaking spells were really established, so people used to have them as kind of... tangible memories."

Daine looked up, her eyebrows raised. "Usually a handkerchief, wasn't it? And you don't mean people, you mean lovers."

The man flushed and stared at the ground. "You're right, it's a stupid idea. I just thought that..."

"I think it's a good idea." The girl's voice was relieved. "When I was... when I started losing my memories, I could see things and know something was odd about them. Like my hands... my hands were too big for a nine year old girl. It was like a tiny flash of memory. And if you have that much then you could build the rest of it. It wouldn't be lost, it would just be... tidied away. A handkerchief doesn't mean anything, though. Cloth can belong to anyone."

When they set on their path again a few minutes later, with the soft light of dawn beginning to creep through the leaves around them, they both had a lock of the other person's hair tucked securely in their pockets. Daine smiled and cuddled close to Numair as he carried her, her terror subsiding to a sleepy feeling of safety. Numair was right: memories shouldn't just exist inside the treacherous mind. When they reached the clearing she was nearly asleep, and Numair had to call her name a few times before she woke up. When she opened clear eyes and smiled at him he grinned with relief, not telling her that he thought she'd wake up nine years too young.

The clearing was empty, without even grass on the ground to disguise the churned up prints that embossed the mud. They were smaller than ponies prints but larger than colts, unshod and light. Every so often there was a thin strip of gouged up soil, as if someone had run an arrow-head along the ground.

"They're not here," Numair started, and stopped when she shook her head rapidly.

"Put me down, please." She said, "I have to talk to them."

Even looking back on that morning, Numair had no idea where the unicorns appeared from. They didn't fly or grow from the earth, nor did they walk from the trees. It was as if the early morning mist simply condensed into the shapes of elegant, slender horses. They all had many features in common- they were all the same glacial white as the mist, lit by the pastel light. They were all about the same height as ponies, but proportioned like Carthaki desert horses, with long necks and legs. The horns that adorned their heads were all strikingly different. There was only one with the single straight horn that poets wrote about. Another had a curved, sickle-like growth, while a third had a series of arcs looping back along its neck. In total there were eleven in the herd, although it was difficult to count them. Something about them shifted and faded when you stared at them for too long.

They also looked incredibly dangerous. As one, they glared at the mage until he understood and backed away a few meters. So some of the legends about them are true, he thought with a trace of humour.

When the unicorns were satisfied that the intruder was dealt with, they turned and directed their baleful stares at Daine. The girl hesitated, reaching into her pocket and drawing her hand out clutched into a fist so tight the knuckles were white. She shut her eyes for a brief moment, and then took a further few steps forward until she stood right in the middle of the herd. The image was truly unsettling- with their heads lowered, the unicorns looked like they were armed with swords, ready to cut down this human. Numair was about to call some magical fire into his hands- just in case- when she started talking. Her voice was quiet, but it carried clearly.

"I didn't come here to ask for my memories back, or to fight you for making me sick. I came here to apologise. I have no excuses. One of your kin died because I was a coward, and I am truly sorry for it. That's all I have to say."

-What does the other one have to say? The voice was imperious, with no hint of which Immortal it had come from, and Daine looked back at Numair, confused.

"He wasn't there."

-Not that one, child!- The voice became impatient, and without a warning a bolt of the thin mist which formed the creatures shot from the sickle-unicorn, hitting the girl right between the eyes. She staggered back a step, and almost instantly Numair took a step forwards.

-Take another step, mortal, and you will die.- The voice came from the mist, as clear as a bell, speaking into the mage's head and ears at the same time. He stopped dead, shaking his head to clear the echoes, both furious at the creatures and wondering at their ability to speak to anyone. Daine stood up straight again, without even a red mark where the bolt had hit her, her eyes wide.

"Where am I?" She demanded, her voice the thinner, higher voice of a child. She stared around, and sank to her knees. "Oh no, not you... are you here to punish me for killing your friend? I didn't mean to do it!" She looked desperately around, and caught sight of the mage in the silhouettes of the trees. "You! Did you bring me here?" her eyes filled with tears, "Why would you do something like that?"

-Speak to us, child. Explain your actions.-

"Are you going to kill me?" This was not the petulant bravado of a child- this was a genuine question, spoken in terror. The sickle-unicorn took a step closer, less threatening now, nuzzling the girl's face.

-No, child, we just want to listen to you. The unicorn you found was our brother. When we found him, all he had left was the memory of your face. We've been trying to find you for years, to find out what happened to him. Our own memory cannot be complete without it. We share one memory, you see, and when parts of it are missing we can feel it, like a pain. Your memories are stronger than they are when you're older, and better shaped than they were when you were younger. Speak.-

The child bit her lip and stared around her, the wild panic fading into sympathy, guilt, and then plain honesty as she told the story again to the creatures. As she spoke, Numair almost imagined he could see the words solidifying into mist, bleeding into the shapes of the immortals like ink in water. When the child finished speaking she smiled, and as suddenly as the bolt had hit her before the mist erupted from her forehead, spilling back into the herd as she quietly crumpled to the ground behind it.

Numair ran forward, and this time no leaden voice stopped him. The herd watched with almost indifferent interest, gradually fading into the mist as the sun grew brighter. By the time the man had picked up Daine from the cold mud and made sure she was unharmed, the only one that was left was the leader with the sickle-horn.

"What was the point of all that?" Numair asked frankly, no longer frightened for their lives. The unicorn tilted its head to one side as if it was thinking.

-You heard me speak to the child. That was the true reason.-

"But why make her sick? Why scare her like that when you can just use that mist-spear thing?"

-Memories must be freely given, or they are worthless. If you do not value a memory then it can be corrupted by lies, or exaggerations, or excuses. If she had come here today and said, that she was too young to know, that she was untrained or ignorant, then it wouldn't have been the true story. It would have been her version, her justification. She chose right. If she had come with excuses then we would have dragged the memory from her, and it would have killed her.-

"You can't treat people like that." Numair's voice was stubborn, his eyes dangerous. "She was terrified, and ill, and all because you wanted to hear the truth of something that happened more than ten years ago?"

-It wounded us. We bled for those years.- The unicorn's voice was curt as it began to fade. –But we leave her a gift. She won't remember any of this. We are immortals. We are unable to forget, and we have many more days than you. We see the blackness of mortal memories as a blessing, not a curse. Take back your lover's token, mage, she will never feel that fear again.-

As suddenly as they had appeared, the voice and the unicorn suddenly disappeared. Numair scowled at the mist on general principles- manipulative, arrogant nags!

Before he stood up to leave, he gently pulled apart Daine's clenched fist until the breeze could steal away the lock of hair. She hadn't let go of it for a second, even when her memories were taken away again. Numair watched the breeze dance with the mist and memories, and knew that they could never be lost, just tidied away until they were wanted again.

He checked the lock of hair in his own pocket, and began to carry Daine home with a smile on his face.


End file.
